


sweetest poison i could take

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season/Series 01, like only in his head tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jughead is the only one who visits the prison regularly. It's the only thing FP has to look forward to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah this is super fucked up and made me uncomfortable even writing it so be careful if you're gonna read it, read the tags and shit and know what you're getting into

 

Jughead is the only one who visits regularly.

Prison life is repetitive and boring and it punches the alcoholism right the fuck out of him in long, hard weeks. In the end, he hadn’t named any names, but his case had gone to trial and so he’d ended up with a shorter sentence than he thought he’d get. Didn’t mean the whole thing didn’t fucking suck, though, didn’t mean he didn’t wish he was anywhere else than here.

He has nothing else to do but wait, and hardly anyone else to wait for. Fred visits once or twice, apologetic and old, Gladys or Jug bring Jellybean a few times, but he doesn’t want his baby girl to see him like this, locked up, and he knows his ex-wife doesn’t want that either. So Jughead is the only one who visits regularly.

He spends his time reading and rereading his letters, waiting for his weekly calls, waiting for the biweekly weekend visits. He builds his schedule around them. Jug usually calls after school on Wednesdays or Thursdays, usually gets a ride down to the prison on Sunday afternoons. His letters are less frequent, but they still come. He gets letters from Gladys, sometimes, or old Serpent buddies, one from Fred’s boy one time, all stilted and awkward and sincere, but the ones he cares about most are Jughead’s.

It’s his handwriting, probably, all scrawled and familiar—a writer’s hand. He’s watched it change over the years, messy crayon to crumpled history notes to lined paper, semi-neat, getting harder to read when he’s taking about something important, like his words are moving too fast for his hand. He smiles vaguely at the thought, keeps the letters carefully folded and tucked away.

The thing is, he can’t stop thinking about the hands that wrote them, warm and soft. Not calloused, probably, because his boy had never been one for sports or hard labor, even if he’d been working for the past year and a half because FP couldn’t get his shit together. Long fingers, always typing away on that damn computer of his, running through his hair, pulling his beanie down over his ears when he was anxious–a habit he’d had since he was little. He was still little—taller, but little. Little enough that when FP hugged him he could feel the press of his hipbone through all those layers. And that was his fault, too, the result of too many mouths to feed and not enough money

The thing is when he thought about it, the press of his hip bones, the flat of his stomach, he always had the urge to see if they’re as sharp as they feel, to press a hand to his stomach and see just how little his son is. He wonders how much his hands could wrap around his waist if he tried, gripped him right and proper. He wondered if they curl halfway, or if his fingertips would touch, or if he isn’t really as little as he’s imagining.

He feels sick right after, like it’s something he shouldn’t be thinking about—he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about. It’s just—he’s worried, is all.

Next time he sees him he asks “You been eating enough, Jug? That new family you’re living with been feeding you?”

Jug raises an eyebrow, but nods and says, “Yeah, the mom is a really good cook, actually. Why, do I look like I’m not?”

“Nah I’m just wondering. You’ve always been so skinny, I just worry.”

Jug gets that look on his face, embarrassed and kind of exasperated, “I’m fine, dad. If anything I should be worried about you—what’s prison food like?”

FP smiles, moving the conversation along, and the whole thing is forgotten. He doesn’t think about how his ribs would feel under his fingers, or how his hips would feel under his hands. He doesn’t, because that’s fucking creepy, and FP’s a bad guy, yeah, but he isn’t that kind of bad guy.

 

One Sunday, Jug shows up with a hickey. It’s hardly noticeable, all those layers and the hood of his jacket covering most of it up, but when he shrugs his shoulder, shifts his weight onto his opposite elbow, FP sees it, a deep purple mark right in the crook of his neck.

Jug catches him catching it and flushes a light pink, bringing a hand up to cover his neck. FP beats him to it, reaches across the table and presses two fingers to his neck, feels Jug wince lightly under them.

FP raises an amused eyebrow, “You been getting busy, Jug? Thought you broke things off with Betty.”

“No, I—I did, it’s not, I didn’t—”

FP’s smiles a little; he hardly ever sees his son flustered like this. He decides to press a little, dragging his thing along the blemish. Jughead inhales sharply.

“You got a new girlfriend I ain’t heard about?”

Jughead shakes his head, looking more mortified by the second—by the question or the fact that FP is still touching him, he isn’t sure.

“New boyfriend, then?”

“I,” Jughead swallows; FP traces the curve of his neck in reassurance, “I don’t know…I guess?”

“You guess?”

Jug bites at his bottom lip, deep red against the flush of his face, “I mean, we haven’t put like, a label on it, yet, I don’t wanna scare Archie off by moving too fast,”

“Archie, huh?” FP says, smug in the way Jug freezes when he realizes he slipped up. He feels his pulse quicken under his fingers. “It’s fine, kid, I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” Jug blinks up at him, eyes very blue and very wide.

“Course not,” FP says, traces his son’s jawline carefully, watches the way Jug’s chest rises and falls, “If you’re happy, I’m happy. Just make sure he’s treating you right, yeah? Tell him I’ll break out of jail if I have to.”

Jug laughs lightly, the sound vibrating against FP’s fingers—which he pulls away slowly when he realizes his thumb is still tracing the damn hickey.

“I will,” he says, “He’ll probably believe it, too.”

“He should,” FP grins, feeling the phantom heat of his son’s skin against his own, and he isn’t sure how much of it is actually a joke.

 

And the thing is, the fucking thing is that he can’t stop thinking about it later. How the color had stuck out against his skin. How hard Fred’s boy must’ve worked for it—it’s not as easy to leave a good solid hickey as everyone thinks it is.

The thought comes to his mind unbidden: Archie’s mouth hot against the skin of Jughead’s neck, the way his boy must’ve reacted, neck throat bared and long fingers in Archie’s hair. He wonders if he’d made noises, or if he’d done his best to keep quiet, lips bitten bright red.

Suddenly disgusted with himself, he shakes the image out of his head. Runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. Fuck. Fuck.

He’s not like this, he’s better than this, gets up to go find something else to do, maybe borrow a book from someone. Clear his head. Distract himself. Fuck.

He just needs to let off some steam, he thinks. It’s been too long since he got laid, so he finds a cute twenty-something guy in the courtyard, light blond hair, knows what to say and what to do because this ain’t his first rodeo. He fucks him hard and fast behind the tool shed, the boy’s ugly prison pants shoved down around his thighs. Grips his hips and can’t feel the sharp press of bone against his hands, can’t fit his hands all the way around his waist, and that’s good, that’s great. It feels nice anyways, feels fucking fantastic.

It’s one of the shittiest orgasms of his life. Quick and empty, forced over the edge by friction alone. The boy smiles at him anyways, takes the offered pudding cup and says he’ll see him around. FP says I’ll look forward to it, even if he doesn’t mean it.

Fuck, he thinks. Fuck.

Fuck, he thinks later, lying in his bed in his cell, lights out, getting a hand around his dick because he’s been restless since his horrible fuck that afternoon. Fuck.

He runs through scenarios in his head, all the pornos he’s seen over the years doing absolutely no help. He focuses on girls, women. He likes women—likes men too, of course, but he likes women. Their soft skin, their curves, the way they arch up when you bite, suck dark marks into their neck, thread long fingers into your hair and tug.

He gasps, tugging at his cock. A beauty mark—kissed by an angel, he’d always heard—under his fingers, bright red lips, bitten raw and gasping. His hip bones are sharp, but not too sharp, fit perfectly into his callused hands. He rubs gentle circles into them, reveling in the way his boy jerks against him, the grasping at his shoulders when FP tugs him closer. He bites into the crook of his shoulder, right where that Andrews boy had tried to claim him, hard and possessive, and his boy moans, something cracked and broken, cups a hand over his mouth to keep quiet but FP doesn’t want that, pulls at his wrist and grinds forward so he can hear that pretty mouth gasp again. 

He gets a leg in between his boy’s thighs, spreading them open gently like he’s unwrapping a birthday present, a pretty little gift he never knew he had until he lost it again, and pushes his knees forwards. His boy moans beautifully, shy and young and flushing, and FP gets his mouth back on his neck, his collarbones, shoving his t-shirt up and groping at his chest, all the soft, uncharted skin. He’s so little, FP was right, finding and tracing his ribs, his stomach, his pretty pink nipples. 

His boy jerks up against him in a sloppy thrust, whining, and FP huffs a laugh, drags a hand down between his boy’s spread legs, and his boy gasps, back arching, Jug’s mouth falls open and he chokes out a soft _“Dad–”_

FP cums, hard and sudden, shoves a fist against his mouth to muffle his groan. It’s silent, save his heavy panting, the air chilly on his skin. The afterglow drops to nothing, leaving him cold and suddenly nauseous.

Fuck, he thinks. He pushes himself up, cleans up quickly with the toilet paper he’d brought from the bathroom, wadding it up into a ball and tossing it to the ground across the cell. Fuck.

He’s so fucking disgusting, he thinks, hot tears prickling in his eyes, the weight of what he just did crushing his chest. Fuck. Fuck fuck, Jesus fucking Christ. The worst kind of fucker on the planet. Thank god he’s locked up, he thinks wildly. Fuck.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, no matter how much he wants to close his eyes and forget it all. Jughead won’t let him, wide blue eyes blinking up at him, suspicion and betrayal shining clear. God. 

He’ll refuse to see him next time he visits, he thinks. He won’t call him anymore. Might write once or twice, but that’s it, that’s all it can be. His heart fucking aches at the thought of not seeing Jughead anymore, but it’ll be for the best, right? 

But fuck, it’ll break Jughead’s heart. He’s already seen his old man thrown in jail, and somehow watch him be a shit father in here, too, where he can’t even drink or deal drugs or fuck up his family life. And he can’t do that to him, not again, can’t abandon him in spirit even though he has in all other senses of the word. 

He can’t break his boy’s heart again, so he won’t. He’ll just. He’ll keep his distance, because he’s a bad guy but he’s not that kind of bad guy. 

Besides, Jughead is the only one that visits regularly. If he stops, FP doesn’t know how he’ll survive the next years of his life. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It makes him wonder, late at night, how those long fingers would feel curled around something else. Inexperienced but eager to learn, soaking up knowledge like he always is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again this is super fucked up. read the tags.

 

The time following his first dip into the pool that is his disgusting subconscious is hard. Most days he feels like the scum of the earth. The worst kind of fucker out there, and thank god he's locked up here instead of walking free.    
  
The only time he touches his son is the brief interactions over the tabletop: hands brushing, ruffling his hair, even though it's against the no-touching rule. He's noticed that if his hands shake when he talks about how things are going in prison or asks about Gladys or Jellybean, Jughead will put a worried hand over them, like he's trying to get the shaking to stop. He does it as often as he can without being over-dramatic or obvious, because he likes the feel of his warm hand curled over FP's knuckles, long fingers, soft.    
  
At first, he tells himself it's because he misses him. Misses the outside world, misses easy hugs and actual human touch. That's why he remembers the feel of skin on skin for hours afterwards. That's why he wants to do it again and again, now that he knows.    
  
It makes him wonder what else Jughead will do in response to him.    
  
It makes him wonder, late at night, how those long fingers would feel curled around something else. Inexperienced but eager to learn, soaking up knowledge like he always is.    
  
When Jughead gets nervous he bites his lip. Gets them wet with a quick swipe of his tongue, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gets them bright red and pretty. He gets the urge to reach out and touch them, sometimes, to run his thumb along his son's mouth and see if it's soft or chapped or wet. He clenches his fists tight together, after the urge passes, because he's not going to do it, of course. He doesn't want to scare his boy off.    
  
It doesn't stop him from thinking about it, unfortunately. Thinking about how those lips would look stretched around his cock, or gagging around his fingers, reflexive tears gathering in his eyes. Wide open, head thrown back and moaning.     
  
He thinks about it a lot.    
  
“You and Archie still a thing?” He asks offhand one day.    
  
Across from him, Jughead blushes a little, but scratches at the back of his neck and says, “Uh, yeah.”    
  
FP pushes down whatever nasty feeling that accompanies that statement, because he’s a good dad. He’s just staying caught up on the situation, like good dads do. “How’s that been going?”   
  
“It’s uh, it’s going good. We went out to the movies the other night.”   
  
“You go to the movies all the time,” FP teases.    
  
“I mean like a  _ date _ ,” he says, tripping over the last word. It’s so fucking endearing.    
  
“Oh,” FP teases, pretending to just barely catch on, “Was it fun?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Did he treat you right?”    
  
Jug rolls his eyes, “Yeah, Dad.”   
  
And then, because FP is a masochist and he has this itching curiosity and need to know, “How about afterwards?”   
  
“Afterwards?”   
  
“After the date. Did he take you home?”   
  
“Yeah...?”   
  
“Did he do anything else?”   
  
Jughead flushes, quickly looking away. He did.  _ He did _ . What did he do?   
  
“What did he do?” He asks, voice low.   
  
“Dad!” Jughead squeaks, glancing around like someone will hear them.    
  
“What did he do?” He asks again, keeping his eyes trained on his son’s face, cataloguing every reaction, “What did you do?”   
  
“Dad—“ he starts again.   
  
“I just wanna make sure you’re alright,” he says, because that’s what good dad’s do, “Come on, Juggie. Did you kiss?”   
  
Shyly, hesitantly, his son nods. “A—a little bit.”   
  
“Where did he put his hands?”   
  
“I mean, um, lot of places?”   
  
“Did he touch you? Did he blow you?”   
  
_ “Dad,” _ Jughead hisses, face bright red, but his expression gives him away.   
  
“He blew you? On your first date?”   
  
“If wasn’t—it wasn’t our  _ first date _ , Dad,  _ jeez.” _   
  
“What about you? You do anything? Blow him back?”    
  
It’s his silence that tells FP everything he needs to know. “You got on your knees for Fred’s boy?”    
  
“Dad, oh my  _ god, _ ” Jughead whispers, head bent low, face buried in his hands.   
  
FP tries to shake the image out of his head, the picture of his boy here with his head bent low and his boy on his knees with his mouth around the Andrews boy’s cock. He swallows down the ugly rise of possessiveness in his throat.   
  
“Sorry, Sorry,” he laughs, trying to pass it as a joke. “It’s just funny seeing you all wound up.”   
  
Jughead reaches across the table to swat at his arm. He seems off put enough that he’s willing to accept FP’s flimsy excuse. The conversation moves on. 

Of course, FP jerks off to the thought of it later that night.    
  
He wonders where they did it, if it was in the Andrews’ garage or Archie’s room or the couch in the trailer. Or, he thinks, a shiver rolling down his spine, maybe the bed. The bed where FP’s slept for the past few years, the bed Jug’s probably sleeping in now. He wonders how they did it, if Jug was standing or sitting sprawled our and debauched—he likes both options, because he can imagine his boy’s legs shaking, struggling to keep himself upright through the pleasure, and he can imagine his boy with his legs spread wide, one hand braced on the mattress and the other fisted the Archie’s red hair. 

He goes with the latter for now. Imagines Jug shivering as Archie unzips his pants, jumping, moaning, as he takes out his pretty cock and sucks it into his mouth. He wonders if Archie’s even any good at it. Childishly, he thinks he could do better. He could rock his boy’s world, make him moan loud enough that the neighbors bang on the walls. He could make him cum. He’s suck him dry, wring out every possible noise, leave him satisfied and warm before gently pushing him down onto his knees to repay the favor.    
  
He hopes Fred’s boy wasn’t too rough with him when it way his turn. He can imagine him pulling his hair too hard, pushing his dick too deep, making Jug choke on it—god, but that has his dick twitching. Has him tightening his grasp so he doesn’t come right there. His son choking on a dick, his pretty lips stretched around it, reflexive tears in his pretty eyes. He’d push that damn hat off, run his hands through that thick hair and pull. Tell him to relax his throat for daddy—and god, he wonders if Archie is any good at dirty talk, if Jug is into that—and he’d fuck his mouth hard and fast. Good boy, he would tell him, pretty boy, so fucking good for me. Rougher and harder than he would ever even think about in real life. Jug would gag around him, throat twitching beautifully, and he’d make some distressed noise that would hum around his cock and—   
  
FP shoves a fist in his mouth to muffle his moan as he comes fast and hard.    
  
As usual, the guilt follows soon after, a draining that leaves him feeling hollow and cold and disgusting. He wipes his hand off on his sheets, and sighs.    
  
He really is the scum of the fucking earth, jerking it to—he can barely think to finish the sentence. Because he’s a good dad, or at least he’s trying to be, and good dads don’t do shit like this in the dark.    
  
He feels guilty and revolting and like he should be stuck behind bars for the rest of his life.   
  
(He still takes the opportunity to see his son in person when he visits. Jug is all he has left. He doesn’t know what he would do without him.)

 


End file.
